


Suture

by ritsuko



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock - Fandom
Genre: Angst, Johnlock - Freeform, M/M, Post The Reichenbach Fall, Realization of Feelings, coming to terms
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-06-03
Updated: 2013-06-04
Packaged: 2017-12-13 19:49:50
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 2
Words: 5,860
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/828168
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ritsuko/pseuds/ritsuko
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A few seconds is all it takes to rip your heart out. It may take years to heal.</p>
<p>Johnlock~</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Wounded

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my first Sherlock fic. I tried to be as thorough as possible. I hope you enjoy!

The first few moments were ones of pure shock. John Watson stared down at his hands, bathed in the crimson of his best friend's blood. He had scrambled frantically to Sherlock's side, stumbling over the curb to land in a patch of red. The knees of his trousers growing sticky with the pooling blood- so much blood- hands desperately scrabbling for a pulse as others tried to claw him away. Hand twitching uncontrollably as he brushed red matted locks away from a vacant blue gaze. So foreign, so 'off'. . . 

So not Sherlock.

He had to look away, catch his breath, as it seemed he hadn't been breathing, hadn't been paying attention.

"Keep your eyes fixed on me," Sherlock had insisted, and now he couldn't even bear to look at his fallen friend, dead on the pavement in front of Saint Bart's.

*****

Fluorescent lights and the sterile smell that was distinctly hospital were his only companions in the next hours.

Sure there were faces, most that he would have recognized were he not in shock, but he couldn't seem to connect names to the faces. He just stared through the window in the wall to the operation room that housed his friend, lying on an operating table. Somewhere, pain registered in his mind, and he looked down to his fist, white knuckled, fingernails cutting crescent divets in the palm of his hand. To his surprise, Sherlock's scarf was gripped in his fist, his own blood starting to mingle with the caked blood on the scarf.

When had he gotten it? The older man racked his brain, but everything had been a whirlwind, with so many people rushing by him. Absentmindedly, he stroked a soft, un-bloodied patch of scarf with calloused fingers. 

Beyond the wall laid his friend. His best friend, so much more than that- his only true friend. The one who had given him his life back. 

Now that was all over. A doctor had pulled a sheet over Sherlock's head, waiting for a bodybag and transport to the morgue, but John could still see the detective's prominent profile through the material. He tried to trick himself into believing the sheet was moving, chest slowly rising and falling, air expelling and filling through to nose, as if this was all another elaborate ruse, but it was no use.

Sherlock was truly dead.

*****

The funeral was a small affair. After all, when the public thought your best friend was a murderous madman, people tended not to show any sympathies.

There were recognized faces here too. Mrs. Hudson, inconsolable and angry at the same time, bawling her eyes out. Lestrade, frowning down at the casket, looking troubled. His eyes flickered up and met Johns, but soon turned away under the scrutiny of the stare. At least he had had the good sense to keep Donovan and Anderson away. John had no idea what he would have done had he seen those two smarmy bastards here. 

There were a couple other recognizable faces from past cases, people that still believed in Sherlock, Angelo, a few of the street runners that were dressed in their best, Raz. . . but not nearly enough. How could more people not be here for this fallen, wonderful man? John bit the inside of his lip, retaining composure on the outside. Inside the pocket of his jacket, he fingered the pashmina scarf. Since all of this had happened, he hadn't let the piece of fabric out of his sight. It was all he had left.

-God. . . can this all be over soon?- He internally pleaded. To any onlooker, he looked absolutely haggard. Sleep wouldn't come to him, he just kept seeing the fall on loop in his nightmares, much worse than any of the dreams that had plagued him after the military. 

The priest droned on, and the sky opened up with a light drizzle. Londoners around him popped umbrellas all around, but he hadn't looked at the weather schedule, much less of anything in the last 72 hours. The rain misted his face and it was welcome, cooling, as if Mother Nature was summoning this release for him.

Then there was no rain on his face, an umbrella cropped up over his head. He looked over into the miserable and tear streaked face of Molly, but could offer no comfort. 

Just his fingers, systematically stroking bloodied wool in his pocket. The only thing keeping his sanity in order.

The service ended. One by one people walked by, giving condolences and hurrying to their cars with the rain starting to pick up, but Molly stayed by his side. No words were uttered, there was just an overwhelming sense of surreal finality as rain spattered down on the black coffin.

Eventually even Molly left, late shift at work. Not before she squeezed Johns arm, telling him to 'Be brave'.

What was the point? There was nothing left to be brave for. 

Time passed and the groundskeepers came to bury his friend. As each shovelful of dirt thunked on top of the casket, John started to wish he was being set to rest in that hole as well. As the last mound was patted down, completely soaked through and utterly drained. 

Sherlock was gone, 6 feet and an eternity away from him.

*****

The first true dream came three nights later. The night after the funeral, he had slept hard, dreamt of nothing, except that the room was pressing down around him, suffocating him. That he was dead as well.

Next night's dream was much the same. Exhaustion had finally caught up to him, although this time, he could smell the grave, the rain soaked earth. All was black.

The third night, the dream changed. He was in the casket, on his side, and he could feel Sherlock behind him. Cold and unmoving. 

The dam of his emotions that he had been keeping a tremulous hold on finally broke, as the usually composed man started to sob uncontrollably in the casket, sucking in lungfuls of air like he was drowning.

Then the arms came around him. Soft. Comforting. Warm. Stroking his hair. John's breaths stalled into hiccups for air.

"Haven't I taught you anything?" came the soft dulcet tones. "You're seeing only what you want to see. Look harder, John. I'm right here."

And he was, holding him from behind, warmth pressed against his back. No longer alone. John let out a cry of relief and slept. The best he had slept in a over a week. 

But when he awoke, reality set back in. He was alone again. Just him and the entirety of 221B.

*****

He tried to write the dreams off. The first week after the initial dream was the hardest. Every night, the dream was the same. Crying, and then being comforted. Waking and still feeling warmth against his back. Imagining the bittersweet musky smell that was definitely Sherlock lingering in his bed. 

No matter how intense the dream was, further inspection of the house was always the same. It was only a dream. 

At first he would gaze around the den, expecting Sherlock to materialize. To shoot at the wall. To play a screeching tune on his violin and yell 'bored'! But no matter how vivid the dreams were, he never did.

"He's dead, John. You have to accept it." He told himself over and over. Then he would slip, put on too much water to boil for tea, too much food for dinner. Then it would set, John too upset to eat. 

He tried to pick up the flat once, and gave up within minutes. Every object, every placement had always been so critical before, that now it felt as if anything moved from the way it had been, he would break. Other people would have seen an unkempt mess, John saw Sherlock in every strewn book, haphazardly placed paper, and the occasional abandoned tea cup.

With the flat like this, he could pretend that Sherlock had just stepped out. 

That he was coming back. 

Though he never would.

*****

He finally bumped into Lestrade about two weeks after the funeral. John wouldn't have even left the flat except that necessity had struck. One couldn't expect tea to last when making extra cups for a phantom, and his body was starting to rebel from so much takeout. Besides, he needed air. Having acclimated himself to the rooms had made the smell of Sherlock fade unobtrusively. 

He made his way to the local Tescos and tossed items into a hand basket- earl grey, some sandwiches, veg and fruits. . . his hand traced the edge of a pack of crisps when a memory socked him in the gut---

_"You keep eating those all the time you'll never keep up with me." Sherlock chided, eying John teasingly over the morning paper._

_John grimaced. "We all have our guilty pleasures. Don't you get on me, patch-boy."_

_The detective rolled his eyes. "I have a perfectly good reason for my vices. Yours are just fattening." In one fluid move he was on his feet, hand in the bag, selecting one for himself._

_"Are you sure you want that? You might gain an ounce." The shorter man clipped back good naturedly. The look Sherlock had given him, slate blue and turbulent like the ocean, had stirred an emotion that John couldn't quite describe, as Sherlock ate the chip and delicately licked salt off of his fingers. He could remember the moment went on just a second too long_ \---

"John!" The exclamation startled the doctor out of his reverie, feelings slipping back into the recesses of his memory. He looked up and saw Detective Inspector Lestrade, walking his way, a shopping basket also slung over an arm. At once he was happy and hesitant to see the man, and wished he could dive behind an apple bin, but it was too late.

"Inspector. How have you been?" John managed to force out, voice raw from weeks of silence. 

"Oh, it's constable now. Seems I had a mandatory review, and when some things were put in the light, well, the higher ups didn't like it." He laughed half heartedly, and John noticed the man had more prominent wrinkles around the eyes than when he last saw him. "Wouldn't find me buying prawn and mayo sandwiches otherwise." It seemed he had gotten a severe demotion if he was out running for snacks for the team, by the look of how full the basket was. Lestrade seemed worried, trying to find the best way to broach the subject of Sherlock. "Are you-"

"Fine. Everything is as fine as is to be expected."

"Are you sure, John?"

John snorted. "Do you think that everything is going to be immediate rainbows and rose petals? Things are. . ." I have dreams of Sherlock every night. I pretend he's not dead. When I wake up my pillow is soaked in tears. I make tea for my dead flat mate and can't handle the thought of washing the laundry he left because then the flat might not smell of him anymore. . . "Things are getting easier."

LIAR. His mind vibrated with the word as if he had been texted it. It must have shown on his face, because Greg cleared his throat.

"You know, Mrs. Hudson has been leaving me voicemails. Says you don't leave the fla-"

"And yet here I am, out and about. What do you want from me, Lestrade?" John's voice snapped. Mrs. Hudson never came up the stairs anymore, and now she was having others check on him?

The policeman sighed. "People are worried about you. We all feel awful about what happened-"

"And yet the Sun is still spewing lies on its pages. You all treat this as if he actually did those things-"

"John, you told me he told you he had-"

"But he DIDN'T! Don't you see! The trap Moriarty set for him? It was real. He managed to make everyone think that Sherlock was insane. Maybe he was, just a little bit. But he wasn't a killer!" John's breath was coming in short bursts, adrenaline filling him, as he watched Lestrade's eyes widen.

"John. . . I'm not trying to say anything bad about him. I just-"

"That's why you're not defending him. Why you're just letting these people say these things and get away with it. That's just as bad in my book!" Watson's acid tone was starting to warrant stares from their fellow customers. 

"This has been hard on everyone, John, if you would just see-"

"See what? If you're going to tell me that you have spent all of your time grieving, then you can sod right the hell off! You have NO idea what I am going through. My best friend was framed and is dead! You think people care? Tell me, where have you been? Engrossing yourself in work? What about all these other so called friends? Mrs. Hudson shies away from the flat now, hasn't even come up to 'check' on me as you think I need. Molly? Must be working on some incredibly important stiffs that she can't even call! And Mycroft. . . can't even go to his own brother's funeral! A death in the family must not be important enough to get you a day off in a government job, eh? Not that his hands are clean in any of this!"

"John, you're clearly upset. You don't know what you're saying-"

"Do NOT presume I don't know what I am going through. The only person I even have anymore is myself because the only person I could even count on to be a friend is DEAD." Lestrade recoiled from the remarks as if he had been slapped. For a fraction of a second, John took a moment to register all of the shocked glances that were coming from every corner of the store, and his cheeks started to burn hotly. Now even the locals at Tesco would think he was a looney any time he walked in the door. 

The smaller man pushed past Lestrade, not even wanting the groceries anymore, but knowing he had to purchase them out of necessity. Quickly with his head down, he made a beeline for the cashier and paid for his few items. He had almost made it out the door when he felt Greg's hand on his back. "John, please, I am sorry. So very sorry. I never wanted anything like this to happen-"

For a moment the gaping wound in his heart that was everything that had been Sherlock in his life closed a little, bound together by a tiny delicate thread of friendship and compassion that Lestrade was offering. It was small, but held taut.

"Just. . . I'm sorry Greg. I need to go."

"Come on John, let me take you out for a pint tonight. We can talk-" The silver haired man was cut off by a curt shake of the head.

"I'm sorry. I just. . . I need to sort this out myself."

With that John Watson escaped Tescos, but managed to gain one tiny thread of hope, a suture to help his heart mend.


	2. Treatment

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Visitations, lucid and obscure.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter is a little more shippy. I don't have a beta, sooo. . . yeah.

The next week was excruciating. Something had changed in the dreams, something tense and unreal. They would start out, Sherlock's solid warmth wrapped around him, but there was an underlying feeling of dread that he couldn't, mustn't turn to look at Sherlock. The vision's message was always the same, to look harder. But in his dreams, John couldn't focus on anything but the midnight blue satin interior of the casket. It felt as if he turned to face those deep blue eyes and unruly ebony locks, Sherlock would dissipate into dust before his very eyes and there would be nothing left.

Then came the night it happened. The night when Dream Sherlock touched him. Truly touched him.

There had always been a magnetic attraction between the two when the taller man was alive, steely eyes boring into him inquisitively, emotions unreadable. Smirking at things he thought were quirky of John. The way he grabbed his hand to get his attention or pull him out of what he considered harms way. The brush of his fingertips against the doctors as he took his tea.

John had always assumed that they were just friends. The best of friends. Able to be in close proximity with each other and still be comfortable with it, even if others didn't share that closeness.

But this was different. A shocked moan escaped his lips, as Sherlock stroked him through his plaid shirt, peeling back his jacket. Willful fingers tracing the lines of his chest, the planes of his stomach, feeling lower. . .

"Don't ruin the illusion, John. Understand it.' Sherlock whispered huskily, hot breath ghosting his ear.

John sat straight up in bed, awake and sweating profusely. And to his embarrassed discomfort, achingly hard. Never before had he ever had a dream like this about Sherlock, and thoughts about the younger man sexually had never really crossed his mind. . . or had they? He had always admired Sherlock's strengths, his smarts and youthful good looks, always a mask of equal parts cleverness and cockiness. But he had never been aroused by the other man in life.

Still, something niggled at the back of his mind, chiding him that those presumptions weren't entirely true, but the blonde merely huffed a sigh of annoyance. He'd never thought of wanking to his flat mate. They were just friends. 

Had been just friends.

The nights that followed were bombarded with the same dream, hands encroaching ever further south of his beltline, making sleep or wanting to consider these new awkward feelings an impossibility. Any time he tried to analyze what he may of may not have felt for his deceased flat mate, awkward pangs of longing, depression and confusion bombarded him in semi-nauseating waves, emotions nearly too strong to bear.

Why did he even have to start having feelings like this now? John stared dully at a cold cuppa that he had made (today? yesterday?), trying to sort his feelings. There was no way that what he felt for Sherlock could have ever been more than friends. Close friends. Entirely platonic. But still, doubts and the realism of his dreams made him question it. 

****

After another grocery run later that week (to Waitrose this time to avoid any awkward stares), John returned to 221B. He mounted the steps with a yawn, still having problems with his sleep patterns. The constant barrage of dreams was making it excruciatingly difficult to do anything other than catnap throughout the day. Still, it wasn't as if he was actually doing anything worthwhile with his time. He quietly made his way up the stairs past Mrs. Hudson's rooms, not wanting to bother the woman. There had been very little interaction between the two since the accident, and whereas he felt terrible to be avoiding her, just couldn't handle anyone at this point.

John stiffened as he reached the top steps, and looked at the door, slightly ajar in the frame. He knew he had locked it when he left. For an instant, panic welled in him, wondering why he hadn't been carrying his Sig, it had been so commonplace in the waistband of his trousers all of his times with Sherlock, that in this instant he felt slightly naked without it, and paused, wondering what sort of trouble lay on the other side of the door.

"Come in Doctor, I'm not going to bite."

Watson's blood ran cold as the unmistakable voice of Mycroft Holmes carried through the door.

Gritting his teeth, John pushed through the door to see the older Holmes brother sitting in Sherlock's chair, a steaming cup of tea at his side, and newspaper in hand. He glared at the smug man as he walked past him into the kitchen to set the grocery bags down. It was only then that he noticed how hard his fingers had been clenched around the handles of the plastic bags, white with anger. He tried to breathe calmly, ignoring Mycroft as he started to put his perishables away. 

"I can see that you're not happy to see me, John."

The smaller man let out a derisive snort. "Now why on earth would you possibly think that?" He roughly shoved a head of lettuce in the refrigerator, followed by a pack of deli meat. The hard thumps they made as they smacked against the wire rungs did little to curb John's irritation at the invasion of his home. "What's not to love? It's always great to have uninvited company, especially when it's someone who is definitely not welcome."

He could hear the rustle of the paper as Mycroft set it down, the small clink of the teacup leaving the saucer. "Come now, you can't have thought that I would be leaving you alone forever."

John whirled around to face the other man, livid. This after all, was the one who had sold his own brother out for secrets. Damn public security or whatever other reasons, but this was a man who could never be trusted. A man that ensured the demise of his own blood. "Well, I bloody well expected you to. There is nothing left for the two of us to discuss. So you can get off of that chair, put down that cuppa, and march yourself out of this flat for good."

"I told you before the reasons I had to-"

"Damn your reasons, you bastard! Sherlock is dead because of you! All because you fell into Moriarty's trap. No reason is good enough for what you have done!" Before John realized it, he had crossed the floor from the kitchen to the living room and was standing over Mycroft, shaking with fury. He glared down at the other man, enraged that the other just calmly took another sip of tea. Instantaneously, he reached his hand up to slap the cup out of the older mans hand when the five words he hadn't been expecting were uttered:

"You haven't been sleeping well."

The smaller man recoiled as if he had been slapped, staring hard at the older Holmes. How on earth could he know? Unless. . .

John's eyes narrowed. "You have cameras in here."

Mycroft blinked slowly, a smile tugging at the corner of his mouth, but never quite forming. "That is the one thing that my brother was always on top of, Doctor Watson. Constantly checking for any outer surveillance."

At the moment, John wasn't even paying attention to what the other man was saying, only starting to blush hotly at the thought that the other man might have seen him on some camera moaning in his sleep about Sherlock, or something even more sordid. He turned away quickly, but Mycroft was still rambling on. "-no need to worry, it's not as if you were doing anything that anyone has to know about."

Leaning against the mantle, John stared into the fireplace, unable to turn and face the other man. "You invaded my privacy."

"John, you've needed someone to watch over you. To make sure that you didn't do anything rash. Your friends are worried about you." Mycroft's succinct voice battered him with guilt and a twinge of irritation.

"Needed? What kind of rash things do you even think that I might do, Mycroft? Make too many cuppas? Forget milk at the store? Honestly. Stop watching me, it's bloody ridiculous." He huffed a sigh of annoyance, looking out the corners of his eyes for any place that he might have missed an obvious camera placement. Though knowing Mycroft, it would never be obvious. 

"You haven't cleaned this place for weeks. You sit in his room for hours at a time, just staring at the wall. You sleep with his blood stained scarf, John. Need I go on?"

It took a moment before John realized that he had been holding his breath, and quickly sucked oxygen into his lungs. He steeled himself, and turned to face Mycroft head on. "That. Is none of your business. And a direct violation of my privacy. You of all people have no right to tell me how to handle this." His acid tone raced the gap between them to strike, but fell flat, unacknowledged by that half quirked smile. 

"About the only thing that I can do anymore for my brother is to make sure that his only friend is safe and out of trouble. It's what he would have wanted, John." The older man intoned smoothly, staring up at the doctor with a beautific look that seemed to only mimic the best on intentions. It didn't fool John one bit. 

"I don't believe you."

Mycroft shrugged nonchalantly, taking another sip of tea. "I can't say that I blame you for that. But you must believe that I only want what's best for you, John."

"As if you know what's best for me." John scoffed, considering for a moment what it might be like to throttle the older Holmes and his irritating demeanor.

"At this moment in time, I think that I do. That's why I want to help you." The tone seemed true, but still, there was no reason to trust it.

"There is nothing that I want from you." The smaller man spat the words like a curse, as if he was expelling the venom of the man's unwanted words from his body.

Mycroft cocked his head slightly. "Is that so? So, there is nothing in this flat that you treasure?"

John stiffened at the insinuation. 

Mycroft continued. "Don't get me wrong, John, I am sure that there are some things of value in this place, some things that our mother would enjoy to have of her deceased son whom she so rarely saw. It has been by my good graces that nothing has been moved. In fact, it has been thanks to my patronage that you have been able to keep this flat. That, and your kind housekeeper."

It felt as if all of the wind had been knocked out of him. How could he have been so blind? In his depression, he had overlooked the fact that he had been ignoring work for nearly a month, and hadn't been paying for anything, rent, electric, all the other little bills that tended to add up. Of course it would have put a burden onto Mrs. Hudson. He felt a sharp shame knowing that he had inconvenienced the woman, and it must have shown on his face.

"Not to worry, John, all your debts are current. You've been paid up for the next year." The look on Mycroft's face wasn't easy to read, but the shame that John felt wasn't diminished by it. The look made him feel so simple, so pathetic, that it was even more searing than any that Sherlock had ever given him.

"No." The one syllable smacked against the silence that had drawn out in the room, and Mycroft quirked an eyebrow. "No. I don't want anything from you."

"Well, I can't just take it back, John. It's all paid for."

"I'll tell Mrs. Hudson not to accept anything from you. I am good for my money. I will pay you back right now." Even as he uttered the words, the impossibility of it weighed upon him. Living with Sherlock, it had been trouble most of the time even coming up with half of the rent.

"Really, it won't be necessary. I find no problem with helping you out a little. It's what he would have wanted. And no need to go to your landlady. She's been quite quiet as of late hasn't she?" John stiffened at the remark, wondering what that could even mean, when Mycroft bit back a laugh. "Oh, doctor, the look on your face. I told the poor woman that she could use a holiday, fully paid for of course. The dear has been having the time of her life for the last three days in Majorca. Not due to be back for another week."

John couldn't help but gawk at the man in front of him, not only in awe, but in a slight fear of the reach of this man. It seemed that he had underestimated Mycroft's ability to infiltrate every single fiber of his life. "What is it that you want from me?" He numbly questioned, slowly sinking into his own armchair, warily eyeing the man across from him. Mycroft sighed and placed his teacup delicately back on its saucer.

"I can imagine how out of sorts that you feel, John. Your little world has been turned upside down, and it seems that you have nothing left to focus on without my brother constantly taking up your attention. Believe me, it's the last thing I want to do to have to rip these last shreds of him from your fingertips, but this calls for a little tough love."

The blonde stared incredulously at the man seated in front of him. "Tough love?" He asked, white knuckled fists clenching the arms of his chair.

"You need new motivations, John. Clean up. This place, and yourself. Go out. Go to work. Meet with friends. Anything that keeps your mind off of it." Mycroft itemized his demands one by one. Then his voice grew softer. "Stop holding that flame in your heart. Unrequited feelings are burning you. You'll never heal because you'll never hear what he has to say. Or would have said. You have to let it go and live your life."

John could only stare at the other man, lips pursed tightly, as a new anger burned through him. How dare Mycroft come into his home and threaten him, threaten to take away the only things that he had left! If he thought that he would just bend over and take this-

Apparently, Mycroft could see the change in his demeanor. "I'm not asking that you do it for me John. Please. Do it for Sherlock." 

There was a slight hint of pleading in the older Holmes' voice that made John start, staring at the other man. He would never understand his motivations, but at this time, he felt something else give. Sighing, he unclenched his hands, focusing on the pins and needles feeling of the blood flowing back through them. Silence stretched on for several minutes as the two men just stared at each other, gauging. 

Finally, the doctor looked away. "I'll see what I can do."

Mycroft smiled kindly, at least, if the slight tug at the corner of his mouth was his impression of a smile. "Good." He rose from the chair, staring down at the other man. "Thank you ever so much for the tea. I believe that this will get easier in time for you John. Just. . . try to move on. It will be hard at first. Sherlock was all encompassing. . . but I am sure you can find other things to keep you busy."

With that, Mycroft strode to the door, letting himself out. John sat, still and wary, as if the ultimatum he had been given was a death sentence. Slowly, he rose from his chair, and walked to the window to look out from the edge of the curtain. The older Holmes' was just getting into the backseat of a black town car, affording one look back up to the flat. He gave John a wry smile, and the car pulled away from the curb, taking Mycroft and his demands with it.

Although they still hung on the air in the apartment.

****

It took five hours to clean the apartment to the way that John had kept it before Sherlock had died. Five hours of washing cuppas and dishes and throwing trash in the bin, hoovering and dusting. Five hours of extensively searching the flat for cameras, hoping that the three he had found were the only ones. Everything looked cleaner, but still in the detective's slightly scattered, mussed up ways. He couldn't move the papers, or the books, or the harpoon. The skull, the violin, the union jack pillow. These he took great care to keep prominently displayed and yet unobtrusive, as if only someone who knew what they truly meant to him would understand their worth. Everything seemed to look normal.

Except for the body parts in the refrigerator though, those had to go. 

He frowned, wondering exactly how he should dispose of them. It's not like one could just toss eyeballs and thumbs in a bin and expect no one to get upset over it. As he ticked off a mental registry of where he might be able to dispose of them, he came to the conclusion that Molly Hooper was probably the only person that could help him with such a disgusting task. 

As he scrolled through his phone numbers, he wondered if it was such a good idea to just call the poor girl out of the blue to dump some body parts on her. He hadn't seen her since the funeral, and since then she had made no attempts to text or call. But then, it wasn't as if he hadn't done the same. Who knew? Perhaps she might enjoy a little company.

She picked up on the third ring, shocked sounding and out of breath. "Hello?"

"Molly, hello, it's John. John Watson." He stated awkwardly. 

"Yes, yes of course. How. . . um, how are you?" She queried, but from the sound of her voice, he could tell that the girl was distracted. 

"Well. . . doing well I suppose. I hope you are doing fine?" He asked, but it sounded as if she had muffled the mouthpiece with the palm of her hand and was talking to someone. ". . . Molly? Is this a bad time?"

Quickly, her palm scraped away at the receiver and her voice was clear again. "Um. . . yes. I'm sorry John, this isn't really a good time. My boss, uh, I have things that I need to focus on at the moment. . ."

"Oh, I see. Well, might I call you later? I was hoping-"

Molly's voice cut in quick and firm. "I'm sorry John, I really have to go. Very busy." 

"I'm sorry, I just-"

The line went dead in his hand. John stared incredulously at his phone, shocked that such a sweet and timid girl could just hang up on him. Sighing, he set the phone down on the kitchen table and stared at the refrigerator door, loathe to empty its contents into the bins outside.

Could it be that the lab tech just didn't ever want to see him again, now that Sherlock was gone? They had never been all that close, but he had thought that maybe she could at least still be considered a friend. John rubbed his eyes and stared dully at the wall. Maybe Mycroft was right. Maybe he just needed to get out and do something out of the flat.

Several minutes passed, until he picked up his phone again, found Lestrade's number and dialed.

"Greg? Yes, hello. I was wondering if you might want to go for that pint. . .?"

The positive reply was better than any pain killer.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Feel free to comment! I love knowing what people think. :D

**Author's Note:**

> Just a note-I know at the end of Reichenbach Fall that John isn't living at 221B. . . Don't worry, I'll be getting to that point in my story soon enough. :3


End file.
